


Recompense

by svana_vrika



Category: Naruto
Genre: Extremely Dubious Consent, M/M, Revenge Sex, Rivalry, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-23
Updated: 2016-08-23
Packaged: 2018-08-10 12:37:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7845223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/svana_vrika/pseuds/svana_vrika
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Madara seeks out Hashirama after Izuna is fatally wounded</p>
            </blockquote>





	Recompense

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer** This story is an original work of fan-fiction. Naruto and its characters, props and settings are the intellectual property of Masashi Kishimoto. I just borrowed the lot for a few thousand words of entertainment. No copyright infringements are intended, and I will make no profit from their use.
> 
>  **Warnings** Spoilers for anime episodes 366-367

The river moved slowly, lazily beneath the darkening sky. At present, the water was still darker; the sickle moon and rising stars were too pale of reflections in the atmosphere yet to even show themselves against the undulating stream. It had always been a thing of awe to Hashirama- how, at first, the light seemed so weak when compared to the dark, almost as if the dark would swallow it up before it really had a chance to shine. But then, in a moment’s- a second’s- notice, the light would suddenly flare to life and it was the darkness that made a retreat. That said, there had been countless times in Hashirama’s life when he’d wondered to the point of near-despair if the darkness would end up conquering after all. He was contemplating that, even as he sat there now.

With darkened eyes, Hashirama stared at the river, though he wasn’t even seeing it at the moment. Images of battle flowed before him instead, projected from Hashirama’s mind. It was nothing new to him; blood and death had haunted him since he’d been put on the battlefield as a young boy. And the river had always been his solace; the purity and constant flow of its depths would bring him peace. Blood washed away. Earth and stone became clean again. Life was constant yet ever changing. It brought him hope that, some day, the fighting would end and that, instead of staining and marring the earth as he did, he could be part of that gentle, reliable flow that sparkled and danced so merrily in the sun. But even the river was failing to provide any comfort that night. For each scene that passed before Hashirama’s eyes ended with the sight of Uchiha Izuna run through with Tobirama’s katana, and the utter despair and betrayal that had flooded Madara’s eyes.

It had been an accident. Hashirama paused, pursed his lips, shook his head. No, that wasn’t right. Everything Tobirama did was deliberate; it had been that way since they’d been boys. Personal. A small nod of Hashirama’s head. That was right. It hadn’t been personal. Tobirama hadn’t killed Izuna because he was Izuna, or even because Izuna was Madara’s brother- despite how Tobirama felt about Madara. It was war. Izuna had been a threat, one that Tobirama had taken upon himself to eliminate. Just like countless others. It had been nothing more than that. Hashirama sighed and closed his eyes. Not that it made him feel any better. And he knew for a fact that it would make no difference to Madara. They’d sworn in front of each other as boys to protect their otouto to the death. If anything was going to turn Madara into a true enemy versus an opponent of happenstance, this would. And he ached with that thought near as strongly as he did the likelihood of Izuna’s loss, for Tobirama’s blade was true. Hashirama didn’t want Madara to hate him. Madara was everything Hashirama loved, and had lost, and wanted to save in the world. Madara was Hashirama's hope. 

The air around Hashirama shifted and a shudder traveled down his spine, though there was no physical evidence of the change in atmosphere. He held his breath, waiting, and then, after a moment, his eyes briefly closed with the weight of the darkness that pressed against him. Instinct told him he should take hold of his blade but Hashirama fought against it. "Are you going to come out?" he said quietly, evenly, as he stood and turned-- and found the tip of Madara's katana pressed to his heart. Hashirama glanced down at it and then lifted his eyes again. “Do you really want to kill me here like this?” he asked quietly. “On the battlefield yes; we are enemies. But here, away from it all and just you and me—we used to be friends. Do you really feel that empty toward me now, Madara?”

“Yes.”

Hashirama’s stomach tightened. He wasn’t surprised, but it hurt him to hear it anyway.

“Yes,” Madara repeated, voice quiet, slightly rough, and he slowly lowered his blade as he continued. “We used to be friends, Hashirama.” Madara’s free fist met Hashirama’s jaw without warning and Hashirama’s eyes went wide with shock in the split second between impact and going airborne with the force. Madara stalked forward, eyes coldly watching Hashirama’s trajectory. “I also used to have a brother,” he seethed as Hashirama landed, half-rolling, half-skidding to a violent stop against a tree. Madara stopped at Hashirama’s feet; glared down at him. “I used to be ignorant that you were a fucking Senju!”

Hashirama flipped himself over, jaw tight, chest aching, neither caused from the blow Madara had landed. “Izuna _is_ dead then,” he said lowly as he pushed himself up into a seated position, tears already pricking at his eyes. “Madara—“

“Spare me,” Madara spat, and his katana pressed against Hashirama’s chest again. “I don’t want your sympathy, Hashirama, and you _certainly_ aren’t entitled to it.” He stared darkly at Hashrama for time undeterminable and then, stiffly, “Izuna lives. For now. I loathe Tobirama even more than I do you but I cannot deny his skill with a blade. It is only a matter of time.”

“No.” In a single, swift motion, Hashirama batted Madara’s katana out of the way and rose to his feet. “There’s still hope, if he lives! Are none of the Uchiha iryo-shinobi? None of your allies?” Hashirama grabbed Madara’s arm, the hope he spoke of burning wildly in his eyes. “If not, take me! I’ll give all that I have to save him! Madara!” he shouted desperately when Madara tried to pry him off, Hashirama ignoring the bruising pressure and twist to his forearm. 

“Fool!” Madara hit Hashirama sharply in the gut with his katana’s kashira, and then knocked Hashirama backward with a strike of his forearm to his throat when Hashirama doubled forward. Satisfaction briefly gleamed in Madara’s eyes when Hashirama finally broke loose, blood leaking down either side of his mouth as he stumbled backward. “ _Are none of the Uchiha iryo-shinobi?_ ” Madara sneeringly mocked as he again advanced. “Your idiocy astounds me and your disdain toward my clan insults me. Do you really think I would have left my otouto’s side if he wasn’t under medical care? And our allies and what talents they may or may not possess are none of your concern.”

“Fine!” Hashirama declared impatiently as he sliced his hand downward through the air, cutting off what was, to him, a bunch of political rhetoric. “Just take me! Please!”

“Take you?” Madara’s eyes narrowed sharply, red gleaming coldly in the dark. “Take not just a Senju, but the head of your accursed clan into my camp?” Madara snorted and then pivoted sharply on his heel and away from Hashirama. “You really are a fool.”

“Madara!” Hashirama reached out for Madara again, grabbing hold of his shoulder this time; Madara spun around and, just as quickly, grabbed Hashirama by the throat. Hashirama felt the air around them shift again, turning heavier, more dangerous—as dangerous as the gleam that now burned through Madara’s eyes as Madara gazed at his bruised and bloodied face.

“You know,” Madara began, almost conversationally, and then his eyes narrowed ominously as he continued, “I think I will take you after all.” 

Hashirama felt the grip on his throat tighten, could tell his flesh was bruising underneath, but it was the intent he read in Madara’s eyes that made his own go wide- made him lose focus enough to enable Madara to force him away from the tree and a step backward into the forest. “Madara-“ he choked out, but Madara spoke over him. 

“Fair recompense, I believe. After all, Tobirama took something precious of mine.”

“No.” Hashirama drew in a breath, windpipe burning, and focused his chakra into his feet. Madara’s grip tightened even further and he pushed hard but to no avail, save to send the detritus beneath Hashirama into the air and crumble the ground underneath as Hashirama fed more chakra downward to repel it. “No. As I said, if Izuna still lives—“ 

Madara silenced him with another strike to the face and then, this time, grabbed his chin, blunt nails digging into the flesh as he sharply forced Hashirama’s face forward again. “And as _I_ said, that doesn’t matter.” Madara jerked his head hard enough to rattle his brain. “You know your brother’s prowess as well as I do so don’t continue to insult me; even if I used the shunshin to take you there now, you couldn’t save him. Even with all your skill, my otouto would still die,” Madara growled before crushing Hashirama’s mouth with his own, and Hashirama tasted fresh blood as his lips were driven back ferociously against his teeth. 

Hashirama’s eyes went wide and he froze, the pain of Madara’s kiss a negligible buzz beneath the shock that shot through his system. He wasn’t an innocent. Countless days away from the compound in the company of only men, things would happen. And it wasn’t as if he’d never thought about laying with Madara. He had since they’d been boys. But not like this. Not like this, and Hashirama found himself pushing hard against Madara’s chest. “What are you doing?”

“Taking you.” The words came harshly against Hashirama’s damaged mouth, they followed by Madara’s teeth, and Hashirama softly hissed at the sharper pain before he could catch it. “Taking you, just as you begged me to,” Madara taunted darkly as he roughly put Hashirama back against the tree again and shoved a thigh against Hashirama’s groin.

The pressure sent a frisson of pleasure down Hashirama’s spine, and his stomach turned slightly with it. He didn’t want to be aroused by Madara’s threats and posturing and, suddenly, he was angry, and the hand that still rested against Madara’s chest curled into a fist. “That’s not what I meant!” Hashirama growled and he pulled his arm back as far as he could and drove the fist against Madara’s breast plate. The skin on his knuckles tore against the hardened leather, but Madara didn’t budge. The punch was too short to carry any true force and Madara just laughed. It was a humorless sound; frightening. And, as Madara grabbed him by the face and forced his head back against the bole hard enough to where he saw stars, a hint of fear briefly mingled with the anger that coursed through Hashirama’s veins. “Don’t,” Hashirama warned in a voice just as ominous as Madara’s laugh had been. “I don’t want to hurt you.” Hashirama softened his tone slightly. “Let me help you instead, Madara. You’re already hurting enough.”

“Shut up!”

Madara’s blade was out in an instant, replacing Madara’s hand at Hashirama’s chin. Hashirama’s gut clenched again, but this time in resignation. Madara was as stubborn as an ox on a good day and, when anger or fear took hold, it was as if Madara’s mind completely closed to any option but his own. There would be no talking themselves out of this one and, as that thought left his mind, Hashirama flattened his palm and directed a sharp burst of chakra at Madara’s chest instead—enough to send Madara flying back and into an oak several yards away. “Walk away, Madara,” Hashirama commanded as he advanced upon him, Hashirama ignoring the blood that now ran down his neck from where Madara’s blade had skipped against his flesh. “Forget this madness and leave. You won’t-“

“Katon! Haijingakure no Jutsu!”

Hashirama cut himself off at Madara’s shout; silently cursing, he drew in as large a breath as he could and then dropped to the ground as the world around him turned to dust and ash. Clothing and skin already singeing in places as the particles floated through the blast, Hashirama silently called on his Hobi technique and then sighed in relief as the wood enclosure snapped shut around him. It would buy him some time, at the very least, and he could plan his next steps—or so he thought. The sudden, sharp crackling of wood and spike in heat told that another fire jutsu had been cast, and this one strong enough to significantly damage the Hobi enclosure. 

Hashirama heard another sharp crack above him as he maneuvered a hand free from beneath his body. “Suiton: Suihashu,” he muttered, wincing as burning embers fell onto his back, and then he drew in a breath again as a stream of water shot from his palm to completely shatter the weakened shelter. It dissipated the detritus in the air immediately around Hashirama too as he scrambled to his feet, but just for a moment; the ash and dust quickly took in the water and fell to be replaced by more, leaving Hashirama damp, dirty and blind to any potential attack. Madara always fought hard, but his anger and fear had left him feeling out of control and he was fighting dirty too, desperate to regain some semblance of it. Hashirama ached for his friend, but that didn’t mean he was going to be a willing means to that end.

The air around Hashirama showed no signs of clearing; knowing he needed to draw more breath, and soon, Hashirama leapt into the closest tree, deciding to try and get above it. Just as Hashirama’s feet hit the branch, something struck him hard in the gut, forcing out what little air he had left as he was driven back down into the ground. Dazed, he slowly pushed himself up, only to be knocked to his back once more. Ash and dust filled his mouth as he fought the instinct to breathe, but he gasped as he was kicked beneath his ribcage, and Hashirama choked on the particles he drew in. _Bunshin_ he realized when he was kicked again and, this time, when he gagged, he brought up blood; felt it trickling from his mouth and down his chin as he instinctively rolled onto his side to keep from choking more than he was. More clones grabbed him, forced him hard onto his back again; blood spewed from his mouth once more from the force. It was futile, Hashirama finally realized through his daze, no longer able to keep the fogs of oxygen deprivation and pain from ebbing into his brain. At least, for the moment. Madara had had the jump on him from the start and he was fighting with the maniac tenacity of a madman. Starved for air as he was, Hashirama couldn’t even thread enough of a thought to form an effective jutsu, let alone find the strength to break free from the bunshin’s hold. 

A sudden gust of wind washed over Hashirama then; Hashirama recognized the pattern and force of Madara’s gunbai and, for a moment, he entertained the thought that, perhaps, the clones would be blown away with the detritus. Instead, they only pinned him harder, and Hashirama let the whimsical thought pass. It was energy he couldn’t afford to waste and, as the air cleared around him, he breathed, slow, deep and discreet in an attempt to regain what chakra and energy he could. As the clones dragged him to his feet, Hashirama abruptly released what he’d managed to gather, and the bunshin dissipated in the burst of sharp, wooden sprigs. 

_Time,_ Hashirama thought dazedly even as he reached back for his katana. He’d nearly depleted himself with his last effort, but with just a few seconds to focus, to breathe, his chakra would start to rebuild and, once it began to, he could heal himself. Blade drawn, he took a wary step into the clearer air, and then another—and then rapidly spun to his right, alerted by a nearly inaudible sound from behind. Metal clashed in the night as his katana met Madara’s and, as red eyes gleamed in delight, Hashirama knew that Madara was aware that it was taking all he had at the moment to hold his stance. _Damn._

Not wanting to give Madara time to capitalize on it, Hashirama let his blade slide from beneath, and then ducked under the drop of Madara’s and pivoted. Even off-balance, his aim was true and the tip of his katana caught Madara’s cheek even as Madara leapt back in anticipation. Blood ran from the laceration to paint Madara’s mouth, but Madara just lapped at it, laughed and came at him. Hashirama swore again as he parried the fierce attack. Madara was feeding off of their battle, whereas he was exhausted, and he swore he could hear Tobirama’s lecture in his head about how his brooding had led to Madara getting the better of him. 

“Hashirama!” 

Madara’s blade came slicing down, air displacing from the force. Cursing himself for the distraction, Hashirama brought up his own in time but stumbled from the strike—and Madara was on him before he could recover. A sharp blow across Hashirama’s shoulder blades sent him to the ground on his hands and knees and, as his katana went skittering across the ground, Madara’s found Hashirama’s throat again, Madara using the tip to force up Hashirama’s chin. “Mm…” Crimson gleamed in a dark triumph that sent a knife of ice down Hashirama’s spine. “I don’t know that I’ve seen a more delectable sight than defeat on _you_ , Hashirama,” Madara purred, and then his eyes narrowed slightly. “Now, get up.” 

Hashirama glared up at Madara and remained where he was, putting what hope he could muster in that his obstinacy would buy him some time. But that last, desperate thought left him in the next second when, in a single, swift motion, Madara shifted to pin him to the ground with enough force to drive his breath from him. “My fool of a rival,” Madara growled into his ear. “Even when all hope is lost, you never give up; how I love and loathe that about you.” Madara’s teeth found Hashirama’s lobe in a punishing bite and Hashirama could feel the warm trickle of fresh blood against his sweat-cooled skin. “Delectable,” Madara throatily declared. “Slayer of so many Uchiha, bloodied and beaten like a filthy dog—by an Uchiha.” Triumph sang through Madara’s voice as Madara’s weight abruptly left him and Hashirama’s eyes fell shut as a chakra laden hand held him in place, Madara’s other tearing harshly at his waistband. The pressure pinning him to the earth grew to where Hashirama couldn’t breathe and, beneath the growing rush of blood behind his ears, he heard Madara’s do drop to the ground before Hashirama’s legs were cruelly forced apart and up. “The last of your dignity being torn from you by an Uchiha,” Madara finished in dark pleasure and Hashirama gritted his teeth as Madara's nails dug his flesh and he felt the press of Madara's cock against his hole. "The only thing that would make this sweeter is if your brother were here to watch," Madara darkly purred before thrusting hard and deep into Hashirama's body.

Madara drove into him punitively and Hashirama grunted as he tore, the sting of it coursing through his body to marry up with the throbbing ache of his damaged face grating against the ground. Madara’s features floated behind his closed eyes, dark and maniacally gloating; Hashirama’s stomach twisted and he dug for another image to replace it. A younger Madara from years gone by with dark, sparkling eyes and a laugh that lift even the heaviest of hearts, and Hashirama smiled as a sweeter ache rose to mask the physical pain that Madara was giving him. _That_ was what he was taking this for; why he wouldn’t resort to a jutsu that, at this point, would likely kill them both. Madara, carefree and smiling, that beautiful dream from their past; they were still within Madara somewhere, he knew it. They were just lost to Madara in the dark, and any bit of that Hashirama could take from Madara would make them easier to be found again. As long as Madara lived, both could still be returned to Hashirama as well, and he’d never give up pursuing that hope—for his own sake as well as for Madara’s.

A sharp twinge seared up Hashirama’s spine, pulling Hashirama back into the present. Madara’s hands had shifted lower to pry him open wide; his thrusts had become harsher, more erratic, and each one mimed and built upon that ache. The scent of blood mingled with those of dirt and damaged leaves and Hashirama gritted his teeth again. There was too much pain now to return to that happier place in his head; cold sweat beaded on his brow and his fingers dug into the earth as if to ground himself while he bore it until Madara finished. It seemed forever, but finally, Madara’s hips stuttered sharply and he came, grinding relentlessly against Hashirama with a groan. Hashirama winced as the circular friction augmented the stinging burn, and then his breath caught hard in his throat from the force with which Madara tore himself free of him. 

Moments passed; Hashirama could hear Madara’s heavy breaths, feel the weight of those eyes upon him, but Hashirama just lay there, letting his body rest, restoring what energy he could to either get home or get through a second onslaught. Eventually, he heard Madara move, heard him retrieve his do, and then Hashirama was forced onto his back with a sharp kick to his ribs. “When you get home to your brother, tell him I sent you back to him with my regards,” Madara instructed coldly as their eyes met. He turned away then, and Hashirama pushed himself up onto an elbow, ignoring the myriad pains. 

“Madara.” Madara ignored him and continued walking; with an impatient sound, Hashirama grabbed his waistband and held it as he forced himself up to his feet. “Do what you will; I will never hate you, Madara,” Hashirama called out after him. “I refuse to abandon you to the darkness or to give up on our dream.” 

Madara did stop then and turned to look over his shoulder; their eyes met for time indeterminate and then Madara snorted. “Obstinate fool,” he declared and then he faced forward again. “I lied before,” he muttered. “There isn’t a soul on earth I loathe more than you, Hashirama.” And Hashirama had to smile as Madara walked away into the woods. The petulance in Madara’s declaration had reminded him again of when they’d been boys and that bittersweet ache from before returned as Hashirama gingerly settled beneath a tree to watch the river once more. The way he felt right then, perhaps he was the fool that Madara had called him. And, when Tobirama laid eyes on him, Hashirama had no doubt that he would agree. But he’d rather take the label than surrender the light and hope he held for them both. “Fair recompense,” he echoed Madara from earlier before he let his eyes slip shut. Maybe not in the truest sense but even so, Hashirama was willing to gamble on his trade.


End file.
